


Ultra-Violet Juice

by FancyLadySnackCakes



Series: Kinktober 2020 [8]
Category: Dead by Daylight (Video Game)
Genre: Anal Sex, Aphrodisiacs, Canon-Typical Violence, Dubious Consent, Extremely Dubious Consent, F/M, Non-Human Genitalia, Painful Sex, Ravaged, Recreational Drug Use, Sex Pollen, Slime, Snuff, Vaginal Sex, Violent Sex, death isn't doesn't really matter here though, flower made them do it, moried survivor, saliva
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-09
Updated: 2020-10-09
Packaged: 2021-03-08 03:35:18
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,901
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26879047
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/FancyLadySnackCakes/pseuds/FancyLadySnackCakes
Summary: Summary: There’s a healthy amount of curiosity one can indulge in within The Entity’s realm, you, however, never did know when to keep your hands to yourself. The Blight is just a tad too interesting...A/N: Day 9 of Kinktober! Kink: Slime. I was really excited about The Blight and yes, I am into him. No idea why, but I don't question these things anymore. Hope you guys enjoy it!
Relationships: Talbot Grimes | The Blight/Original Female Character(s), Talbot Grimes | The Blight/Reader
Series: Kinktober 2020 [8]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1958581
Comments: 14
Kudos: 85





	Ultra-Violet Juice

"What's his name? Or has the book not said anything about him yet?"

It's a simple question, but Quintin ordinarily keeps tight-lipped about killers when he's not illuminated by the protective flush of the campfire. Given all he's been through, you can't blame him. Yui, thankfully, is less wary of discussing matters while wrist-deep in a generator. 

"Talbot Grimes. Age: unknown. Realm: unknown. Scottish. Disgraced chemist… that is all you need to know."

Glitter from pairing the blue and red wires hits your sweater cuff, smoldering then fizzling out as the misty rain hangs downward.  _ All you need to know? Unlikely, by far... _

"Right... so, knowing how to evade him isn't pertinent information?" You glance over your shoulder as an eternal expanse of mazarine darkness fills with spider-silk fog, letting the weight of your dry sarcasm fill the silence between mechanical repairs. 

Finally, Yui peers up from a lever, aims a disapproving look your way, then sighs, "You were there when Nea died. He uses chemicals—syringes of his own compound. Formula from orange flowers. Toxic… I see spores around. You should be careful, curious cat."

You click your tongue and finish pigtailing several copper filaments together, packing the group behind a metal panel. "He's responsible for the blooms and the infection… with the phosphorescent puss, then?"

Yui lifts her lip in a sneer, "Seems so. Vile."

"Hmm…" that sound has always been your downfall. The tone of intrigue always prefaced acts of stupidity. Curiosity did indeed kill the cat; it's what brought you here, that summer during the stuffiest days of the year in an abandoned laboratory basement… too curious as to where the mist led. "You said something about spores around here?"

Blonde hair tumbles over her face for a second, making the grim expression even less encouraging, but she groans and replies, "Between the four-pillars and the temple. I saw flowers. Stay away."

_ Sure, you'll do that, as soon as… this generator… _

White-hot sparks pop and fizzle as the generator rumbles to life. You point to the east where the killer shack stands in a sunken mess of decrepit wood planks. Yui nods to the temple, where another generator lies untouched, urging a withdrawn Quintin in that direction. You split from the duo with a reassuring smile, but once out of eyeshot, you take a detour round to the four pillars where Yui said those pustulent flowers grew. 

The reek of sulfide-laced honey makes your nostrils flare long before you see the whiffs of noxious pollen floating from spider-legged pistils. 

Ashely is running the killer around. He's been leading chases since the start. The danger is removed, and a salubrious amount of curiosity is necessary to extinguish The Entity's realm's boredom. There's no second thought, even as your heartbeat begins to thump thicker and faster. Delicately, you brush a finger against the barbed stamens, holding your breath as more feather-light orbs of pollen dislodge themselves from the ovary of the bloom. 

It's…  _ beautiful… _

_ Thump… thump.. thump thump-thump- _

The distant dashing of a killer barrels towards you at octane levels of urgency. 

Heart in your throat, you lurch to the side, startling the single blooming flower into a cacophony of golden flakes, half of which sail up your nostrils when you inhale a sharp breath of fear. 

The Blight slams off the stone pillar inches away. He staggers back in a splatter of incandescent orange spittle and roars, weaponized cane raise. Curved copper misses you by less than feels comfortable, but instead of regaining himself quickly to administer another plunge, the remaining pollen blows into his dangling jaw. Ocherous puffs are drawn into his mouth, alighting something in his deformed posture.

You don't run, only because the haze of blighted efflorescences is clouding your equilibrium as well...

One bitter-orange eye of awareness stares beneath a mist-damp hood of gloom, matted in specks of pollen. Fiendish relish makes the brilliant orb jitter back and forth, much like a pendulum swing. A rotten interest lies in that eye—an eye that studies you inside a brief moment of limbo.

You stare, transfixed and intoxicated. 

Oozes of violet-amber fall in lush strands from his foul mouth, breaking apart mid-waist. Glowing puddles develop in the wet dirt between his beaten dress shoes. You can't help the quiver of disgust from cutting through the blooms drunkenness before the visual feast you'd both been locked in snaps when a generator blows not far away.

The Blight doesn't chase after the crossed-wire mistake; instead, he leans his head back, snarls, and launches himself at you. 

You throw a pallet in his face at the last second between safety and injury. The stun knocks a splatter of poison out of him, droplets reaching your sweater sleeve. No time to concern yourself with the slimy mess—no time to lift your arm and spread your fingers within the phlegmy fluids… but you do. You echo that  _ 'hmm' _ from earlier before tumbling over your own feet, punching the air out of your lungs as you fall chest down into unyielding, dank earth. 

The irony is not lost on you...

Talbot bashes into an unattached stone structure a few feet away with a crunchy slam. He peels himself off with a sound like a honeycomb shucked from a hive, and smothers your rear an instant later. 

Your carelessness—curiosity being one in the same design—leaves you open to attack, but there's no attack… just the ever-present heat and threat as The Blight hovers overhead. 

At some point, you must have screamed because you detect someone's footsteps closing in. The Temple of Purgation stands as a shrine to holy fires only a dozen or so feet away. Someone, maybe Ash, must be hiding just behind a column. Altruism isn't dead, even for you, it seems. 

"Come on," you gasp, ignoring the raw sense of fright at injury and death despite how many times you've undergone such, "... and get this over wi—" 

Thirsting breath on your neck disturbs you into silence. Snarling, snuffling gushes of moist air steep through the loose bun to your scalp and down around your throat. Talbot... he's… inhaling you… the blooms… and this isn't the typical pre-kill nuzzling you've felt before from killers like The Demogorgon. This is… an aching, greedy, aroused type of touch.

The odor of afflicted flowers is all around you, still stinging your nostrils, but now, closer to a secondary source, it waters your eyes. Some of it is already metabolizing through your pores...

"... ughhnnn," it comes from your throat where it feels like you're inhaling ignited smog; one spark away from exploding.

Wobbly, sharpened teeth skim along the back of your neck, leaving slimy residue across your cheek in a caress of pendulous meat, vibrant drool, and slight scratches. The puff of pollen from earlier makes the viscous compound—distilled through saliva and phlegm—feel like rich honey as it coats your face and neckline, trickling below your sweater. Your breasts throb. Nipples harden, bracing for the moist heat of all that putrid saliva to soften your flesh and penetrate each microscopic pore.

A deadly-clawed grip curls around your waist, feeling like the precursor to being hurled over a shoulder and taken to a personal meat hook. Shivers of liquid heat run through your core as Talbot's hand hesitates—talons dancing near exposed stomach skin, revealed from the fall.

Ashley Williams, as you'd anticipated, runs forward with the beacon of rescue: a flashlight with sapphire lenses and backup batteries.  _ He'll save you,  _ you assure yourself, but he blunders forward in the swampy patch you fell victim to moments ago.

_ No _ ...

Ash slips, and The Blight swings that cane into his chiseled jawline, sending blood out his nose and mouth, forcing your only hope to run off, clutching a cracked face. The flashlight now sits abandoned in the dirt… It's as despairing to watch it sink into the mud as it is to feel more hot dollops of chemical spit fall across the back of your neck. 

Another shiver, and this time, a moan wracks your body.  _ No. No, no, no… no… God, no... _

The Blight's mass drills you deeper into the slippery sediment. He gurgles noisily, disturbing the crows in the canopy of radiation-burned trees before belching a serrated screech into the forest. The sound reaches the Temple of Purgation, bouncing off ancient brickwork and rusted metal cauldrons. Even in your lungs, his victory roar echoes.

He's going to  _ mori _ you—to kill you. The hook is too good for you after wasting time satiating that fatal curiosity, and you've seen from afar what happens to the body once Talbot introduces his vile compound inside. You'd rather The Executioner… or even The Demogorgon with its own radiant flower of teeth to split you apart. 

Rather than being flipped on your back and jabbed with needle after needle of juiced torment, a ruined mouth presses close, sluggishly outlining the shell of your ear. 

Another shiver of revulsion ripples through bones, sinew, and fine capillaries. Hot, tepid breath sticks to your sweat and the layers of orange pestilence frosting flesh. Something like a word—like a butchered garble of your name—tumbles from the deep reaches of his throat.

_ That's impossible, _ you think, troubled and shivering,  _ killers don't speak, let alone know your name.  _

A leak of burning bile dribbles out with the word once more, sliding off your cheek to just barely graze your lips. Gooey contact makes you gasp, unintentionally allowing a thin trickle past your teeth—the taste of astringent poison fuels some primordial kiln in your muscles. With a soft nudge of something firm and slimy in your ear canal, you brace for impact and swing your skull into The Blight's face.

A geyser of amber liquid splatters outward. Brilliant darkness snaps across your vision, followed by twinkle lights as the view of the temple falls back into crisp detail. Blood and drool soak into your scalp. Lungs smothering your heart, you curl your fingers into the ground and throw yourself out from underneath him, blundering headfirst into an awkward, janky run.

Behind you, The Blight shrieks with rage. A hiss—abruptly silenced by his own dash—is all the warning you have to cut to the right, climbing up steep stone steps as he barrels into the outside wall. He garbles on high, shudders from head to toe, then makes another hauling rush towards you. The cane wizzes against the back of your head, spilling the knot holding your bun in place. Hair flies before your eyes, sticking to your whites as you descend into a fire-lit antechamber. 

Quickly, before he finishes recovering from another slam into a waist-high barrier, you stoop down toward the catacombs. Tiptoe steps guide you quietly down into echoing darkness, lit only by a few hanging braziers. Against a wall, shaded by a crumbling stone divider, you stand noiseless and wait, barely breathing.

Slowly, but ultimately, your heartbeat slows. You wait several moments before dislodging yourself from the wall, peering out into the catacombs to see Quintin standing near an untouched generator.

"Your sleeve is ripped…" He murmurs, dropping to a knee before pulling two wires from a chassis. Of all the people to stumble upon, it's him, which wouldn't be so terrible if it wasn't for all The Blight's drool drying across your face, neck, and hair. 

"Thanks," you mutter, brushing loose, damp hair behind your ears before joining him, fisting loose cogs with a frown. 

"You have something in your—"

"I know…" A part of you intends to leave it at that, but as with most deadly encounters, the adrenaline wanes and mechanical repairs turn tedious. You glance back at Quintin to catch his eyes darting back to the wires—a blush dyeing his gaunt cheeks.  _ Curious… _ but not more than The Blight or the blooms…

"So, you never told me if you read the book or not," you mention, no louder than a whisper, "does it say anything about the pollen? What about this drool? Those-those syringes…"

Quintin blinks away a hazy expression before stuttering, "I-I… I don't see the point in reading that thing. It's like… a Necronomicon. Nothing good comes from reading the Necronomicon."

You can't help but scoff; it's low, barely a jet of breath, but it's an involuntary noise at how utterly boring he is. Just because they're destined to die and survive here for all eternity doesn't mean they've died inside. Where is his sense of adventure? Discovery is all they have now. 

A sparkle snaps out of the generator, heating the tip of a finger, but you suck in a curse and turn it into a scathing comment, "Rather sleep than read,  _ huh _ ?"

"Not exactly," it's said in a way that begs further explanation, but the downcast gaze he turns your way says more than Quintin probably intended. If the blush didn't give him away, the insinuating remark and leer certainly do. 

You continue with your repairs instead of engaging, feeling that odd warmth from the flowers still lingering. Either the pollen is still mixing within your system, or the chase earlier hasn't finished delivering epinephrine, not ready to give up a pursuit that's already been won. Whatever is the culprit, it's not Quintin, and it's best you not let him think otherwise…

"If you want, you can use my jacket to clean that stuff off—"

"I'm good," you bite out, then swallow the ominous surge of nervous energy and throw him a twitchy smile, "I'm okay… really… it's just-just slime. Once we get out of here, it'll be like nothing happened."

Quintin nods, muttering a 'yes' under his breath. His eyes continue to linger where your sweater has been torn down to your neckline, leaving a gaping mess of wool yarn to expose the heft of one breast held aloft by a black bra strap.

With his unfocused wiring skills and your attention to rethreading loose hoses, the generator starts to rattle. The fourth piston gradually begins pumping up and down; echoes of oncoming electricity ping off the stone surroundings. They grow louder and louder, slowly dampening all incoming noise from outside the tomb. It's in these final moments before the generator is complete that you feel the air displace. Sixth sense says someone's coming, and a wall-rattling shiver of ancient mortar from the ceiling confirms it's no survivor…

You yank your hands out of the guts of the generator at the last second, narrowly toppling backward on the hard floor as The Blights dashes between you and the gen, slamming the wall four feet away and lunging right into Quintin. He bows forward with a loud cry, running up the stairs and out the catacombs... but Talbot doesn't chase after him like you would have assumed. Instead, The Blight turns—lower jaw flapping with thick strings of bright mucus—and hisses belligerently at your frozen form. 

That heat that's been overstaying its welcome moves into your lower belly, further down to where your most intimate innards dampen and clench. Just the hot, pitted-orange iris that drinks you in beneath that lank hood draws you closer... as though hypnotized.

A lurch forward from his gruesome visage breaks you from the spell. Before he can reach you, your feet take you mere inches from capture… and then—then you run. But you don't get very far…

Whatever recovery time The Blight required is not enough to give you the distance you need to escape. A scant second later, his cane sweeps out, glinting across your vision. The beautiful, blood-copper handle hooks around your throat and jerks you back into the stiff, knobby chest of The Blight. On the blunt end of his weapon, a maiden in mineral relief grips a pulsing gemstone of sunset skies. Once again, you lay inebriated, this time with your spine crushed to the pounding, panting chest of Talbot Grimes. 

The Blight knocks you to your knees. A boot stamps your shoulder in striking pain, sending you to your stomach with an outcry. Cold stones scrape your bare belly, sweater riding up underneath your breasts as he drags you away from scrambling at the middle chambers gates with futile fingers. That crushing heat coats your body once more, branding skin—both exposed and covered—in goosebumps.

"Quintin!" You roar, repeating his name again, only

louder now. He can't have traveled far—not far enough that he won't hear you. 

When your tattered sweater shreds across your shoulders, you scream his name again, shriller now—and again until it's less his name and more a sound, fractured by use and fear. The Blight tears your sweater down to the hem, exposing a threadbare bra backing that only barely remains intact despite the claws that rake down your spine. The pain it livid; white-hot. It opens up superficial, stinging wounds that burn as warm globs of drool tap between your shoulder blades. 

There's no syringe because that isn't what's going to happen. The Blight had his chance to mori you into a goopy, hollowed-out corpse, and he didn't. The Blight doesn't want to kill you… he wants to… to…

With claws of erratic vigor, he shaves through the side seam on your shorts, rendering them nothing but a loose blanket of canvas cotton. A thin, bony palm slaps down on your lower back, sliding through sweat to the heft of one ass cheek. That abysmal aching heat comes back despite your heart smacking against your sternum, battering the stone floor beneath you. 

_ This is your moment, _ you think. Something like this has never occurred before, at least not which you've heard or read. Killers don't fuck survivors if they even fuck at all. Something like this would be unprecedented… perhaps a first within The Entity's realm. 

You blush at the thought of letting this happen, forgetting for a moment that it will whether you enjoy it or not. But, for mere curiosity's sake, why wouldn't you go willingly? 

Death is only the beginning, and pain is ever transient.

Giving in to the burgeoning warmth, you allow The Blight to snuffle his oozing mouth along the back of your head, teething away strands of slimy tendrils to nudge a hard, slippery knuckle of a tongue around where your jaw slopes into your throat. The touch is fervent, uncoordinated, and starving. Perhaps there's a film of pollen still there… or maybe you are the pollen now, considering how it's been burning through you, flowing out in rank perspiration.

A sizzling sniffle, followed by a rich moan—almost human—sends more goosebumps down your arms and legs. Fingers going white around the stones on the floor, you brace for what's to come.

The Blight rattles off sounds in high to low frequencies, overhanging a deep thunder of manly excitement as he lays a six-fingered palm down near your head. You study the knobby joints on one outstretched finger as it ends in a gruesome nail, stained in old blood: your blood. His skin's tawny color appears perpetually bruised as if the formula coursing beneath his flesh never stops ripping apart the fine capillaries between epidermis and dermis. 

_ Must be painful, _ you think absentmindedly, ignoring, for a moment, the touch of his other hand encompassing your hip. The Blight yanks your ruined shorts down your thighs, snarling as the fragments knot around your knees. An irregular, hissing whine gurgles out past a slurry of drool when you kick your ankles apart. The assist must be welcome because a low sibilance lathers along your exposed back.

All around you, a mist curls inward. Time stands still. Almost as if The Entity is as curious about this as you are. If it feels anything, it probably feels drawn in seeing a new form of punishment—a new way to torment them all. But it doesn't torment you in the same way being thrown on a hook is… this is so much more… 

"Talbot…" you whisper longingly just to see if he'll respond to his old name. If he does, it doesn't show in the way he wrenches your thighs apart—not in the way he plucks up the delicate weight of your stomach, lifting your backside to his groin. A dull thrust, clothed and ineffective, knocks you forward, closer to the lattice-iron gate. Another fruitless effort pushes you close enough to fist the cold bars as The Blight bashes his hips to your ass, growing further frustrated by his tight, buttoned trousers still in the way. 

Hard to tell, but the stiff jab in your left cheek is very likely his cock. Unwilling to lend a hand for fear of angering him, you squeeze your eyes shut until speckles of light blow up behind your lids. In your own darkness, you map out the contours of the bulge being humped between your cheeks.

There's a pause. A scuffle of fabric. Torn threads and something small but hard pinging across the stones: a button, perhaps. It must have been, because suddenly a long, wet… misshapen organ slaps across your ass, slipping grossly down the curve of your hip to hang and bob between your thighs. 

You lift your hips and chest, rising to your elbows enough to glance beneath your body at what The Blight is about to unleash upon you. 

"Fuck."

Broad… massive—a bulbous middle the color of sunset that fades into dark tones of tawny ash. Webs of thick orange brilliance cover the mass, more dribbling from the wrinkled tip that looks about as hardened as the tip of his cane. 

_ It's going to hurt… and that-that's alright,  _ you tell yourself. The problem is, you were preparing for how much he'd hurt going in, not the unexpected twinge of pain as The Blight misses, jabbing his cock too high before slipping it between your cheeks. He snarls, uttering a piercing hiss into the catacombs. 

Like an animal… or some blind monster—an uncoordinated creature bent on instinct over sense—he misses again. You nearly reach down to help position him, but the third time doesn't miss—the third thrust drives deep, not just 'deep' but profoundly so.

You hiss in a weak mimicry of his own. It hurts. It's more than painful—it's transcendent, and then, just as quickly as it turned frighteningly unbearable, it's… good...

"Qui-Quintin…" His name only slips out your mouth because you'd nearly scream for him in panic when the pain transitioned into something else, but you couldn't get it out then as you can now… however, the last thing you want is him or anyone showing up and ruin this experiment.

The gunk oozing from The Blight's cock feels like melted gold—like honey freshly flowing from a cracked comb. Summer flower nectar. Dizzy perfume but for the blood that flows. This creamy, silken fluid floods out of him and soaks into the mucus membrane that is your hot cunt. 

Feverish heat surrounds you. A harried, almost mindless thrust forward—stuffing himself deeper—quickly turns into close, rutting pumps of stiff, bulbous cock that plugs and pulls you past the point of tears. 

Snot runs down your lips—tears stream down your cheeks. Perspiration bleeds off your skin like rain sleuthing from a storm. You tremble, readjusting your grip on the bars, but it's little use. He's fucking you across the floor, sending you into the unmovable iron; the top of your head bashes against the gate. Haze from within the chamber parts as you slap a palm between the bars, bracing against an uneven stone sunken into ancient mortar and forever frozen at an odd angle. Even if The Blight hadn't caught you a second from finishing that generator, this stone would have tripped you up, and you'd still be getting fucked down on the floor.

With each slamming pump of his hips, another swath of vicious goo paints your back. It's already soaked through your tattered sweater, down against skin, where it adds a layer of lubricating slime between you and the floor.  _ So much… _ that it's pooling beneath you, forcing damp wool to slip and grate across tight nipples. 

An especially thick rut of cock forces a delightful cry from your belly. Nausea hits you a second later as the depth with which his erection reached lingers unpleasantly inside your stomach. The Blight huffs and gurgles, taking your sound of sickness as an entry to keep cock slapping that spot over and over… and over again...

You scream, but not for anyone… just because it's all you can do until this new wave of distress passes. And it does, eventually, leaning back into glimmers of warmth.

Once your nausea fades into a raw, burnt sensation beneath your navel, pleasure sticks and doesn't let go. The Blight continues tapping that knotted bundle of nerves situated at the back of your cunt until it arouses broken grunts from your mouth.

Despite the clear spit from your slack lips mixing with his own putrid smear across stonework, you can't keep your trap shut. Each drag of cock tugs the muscular ridges inside you—the bulbous veins along his flesh working wonders along every inner inch. Even the way he forces your cunt to loosen with each pullback, courtesy of the more voluminous midsection between the base and sleek tip, sends you squealing happily against the floor.

In your imagination, you can see the way his cock plunders your insides. The serpentine rod of bent steel, cut with corkscrew veins of bulging character, drilling somewhere so deep it's hard to identify. A fleshy tickle of many tendrils makes you squeal as he hooks his cock back in, tip lingering at your opening just shy of slipping out. It's… it's as if his cockhead just grew dozens of soft stamens, flickering within your walls and against your cervix.

Within the space of three more bashing jerks of blighted cock, you tense, suspended in place with an orgasm. 

There's no slow burn to the cliff's edge for you.  _ No… _ it strikes down like a nuclear explosion, consuming you from the inside out; toes and fingers curl until they run frozen and numb, the rest of your body on fire. 

The Blight does not stop even as you go limp against his thrusts. 

He maintains that hectic rhythm, fucking your petite body into the wrought iron gate as your fingernails dig bloody crescents into your palms. His moist hips force your backside up—your spine to bend harshly until you're a bow with limbs, a screaming mouth, and one sopping wet cunt. All that extra fluid from your climax still swims in your belly, coating him like military-grade petroleum jelly. Everything runs beyond slippery—beyond sense that The Blight pulls out too far, slipping from your gaping pussy… but he doesn't thrust back in… merely jabs a rigid, blooming pillar of meat into your inner thigh before re-angling and then-

An agonizing scream ruptures from the bottom of your guts as The Blight enters them. Sweat pours. A flush alights your skin into prickling itchiness and freezing aches as your ass is stretched and fucked.

The Blight found a way back inside you…

He doesn't hear your whimpering moans or the clipped screams as he assaults your backside with the same unbridled relish he did your cunt. Pressure amassed in your lower intestines. Your rectum opens and clenches, trying to sustain rigidity as slippery, goop-coated cock anally terrorizes you into a blind frenzy. 

A long minute passes—dozens and dozens of greedy thrusts later—before your body stops resisting the intrusion. Panic still leaks from your pores long after your ass has relaxed around The Blight's tunneling pace—long after distant flickers of delight begin to grow.

The constricting ribs in your ass make The Blight hiss and froth at the mouth. Tendrils of hot molasses drip thickly down, caressing your back, your throat, and past your stretched neckline.

Mist licks at your tears as if it's The Entity itself tasting your suffering—the sweet, bitter tightness of pleasure that should undoubtedly be pain. It's the microspores in your bloodstream. It must be. There's no other reason you'd find yourself weakly rutting your backside into his violent rhythm otherwise. The Blight seems to relish the brutally tight confines of your ass, emitting a slurry of hisses, more drool staining the small of your back.

Drool, pollen dregs, and endorphins from your recent orgasm combine to make the molten friction enough to make you tense and pucker for another. This climax comes on slow, much like the languish drip of iridescent mucus that falls across your body. You feel a low pressure, like cruising down a rollercoaster until your guts drop. The tidal wave of it grows. Rapture becomes bliss. Pain is just the same sensation as everything else happily rushing through you, until—finally—you come again.

Orgasmic ripples mount from the base of your spine, rolling into your empty cunt where fluids drip and mix with all the copious amounts of sunlight-bright goo. Juices boil in your veins, foam in your mouth, and pour off your body as you shiver and drain, falling infirm as The Blight stuffs his cock as deep as it will go… and cums.

Fat globs of spittle rain down across your body as burning spurts of semen splatter into your bowls. Wet, sloppy heat coalesces in your belly, filling deep with each jerk and spank of his hips. While you ride out the ebbing peak of euphoria, The Blight pumps you full of whatever mixture makes up his cum—whatever hybrid of bloom concentrate and bodily fluids. 

_ It's beautiful, _ you think,  _ whatever it is… _ .

As he empties himself inside you, the mist begins to fade. Tendrils of The Entity's miasma crawl back into recesses, revealing the catacombs to your blurred vision once more. The great stone sarcophagus stares back at you, lit by several scones. And down a way, through to the opposite gate, stands Quintin. 

_ How long… has he- _

The internal question vanishes quickly as The Blight nuzzles his dangling mouth along the back of your neck, drooling dribbles of shiny spit as that odd tongue bumps the shell of your ear. It's almost human in the way it conveys a deeper meaning than what he can obviously express with words or actions. 

You let your eyes fall closed, savoring the internal heat and adhesive cum that flows around his cock, down your inner lips, and joining in the slime already pooled beneath you. 

Juicy, sticky, and hot. Oddly enough, it's decadent and not foul. Not even the way Quintin bites his nails in the distance bothers you… only when The Blight drags his cock from your raw hole do you finally keen in yearning.

_ Don't go _ , you want to say, but it's you that's going…

The Blight garbles your name with slathers of drool and flickering teeth before stabbing something sharp in your spine. 

"-uhk!" Air leaves your lungs; your veins balloon.

He rips the syringe out and stabs you again. Pumping you full of concentrated Blight until you're one with the compound, bubbling from the inside out. 

The last thing you see before your eyes pop out is Quintin hightailing it out the catacombs like a coward.  _ Do you blame him? Maybe not.  _ The pain comes from the pressure as your skin stretches and tears. A burst over your shoulder rains bloody, goopy orange over the floor… and another thing somewhere else ruptures. 

You feel your body expand... and then- 

Crackles of the campfire greet you as your vision transitions from blurry shades of darkness to crisp spits of the flames. You glance around, gradually coming to in this new body that isn't bloated with toxins.

"Welcome back," a British baritone greets.

David King is sitting on a toppled log a little further from the fire. He looks up, gives you a brief smirk and nod of acknowledgment before going back to picking old scabs off his knuckles. 

A soft hum of contentment lingers in your stomach, but there are no signs of pain or fluids from The Blight's attention. Usually, the fact that the campfire always washes away the wounds from the last trials is a comfort. This time, you are slightly disappointed. It would have been fascinating to hold samples of the blighted fluids if only to see how they reacted with flora and fauna of the survivors' realm. 

Eventually, Yui walks her way towards the campfire, coming from somewhere outside of the band of mist. Ash is not far behind, and neither is Quintin, who refuses to acknowledge you as he sits gingerly on a tree stump about ten feet away. 

_ What all did he see? _ It's going to be a question you ask yourself until you find the answer because you know what it was like to get used, abused, and filled by The Blight, but…  _ what did it look like? _

"I see you were moried," Yui says matter of fact, a hint of admonishment in her timbre. 

"Too curious," she continues, "Must be why you're here."

You throw her a toothy smile and scoot a little close to the former street racer, only to freeze as a slide of something thick oozes out your cunt, leaking between your thighs. The color drains from your face before you can even think about asking Yui for the book.

_ Fuck, _ maybe not everything is as reset as you'd assumed… which means…

"Hey," you nudge Yui with an elbow even though she scowls, "... that book say anything about bringing stuff back from the other realms? Or killers in general?"

She sighs until a blonde lock fall over her face, "Meet me in my cabin. I will give you the book. No point in keeping your nose from it now."

"Wonderful! I hope there are more pages on Talbot—"

"Ha!" Ashley Williams guffaws while scratching his chiseled jawline with the stub of his wrist, "Girl got it bad for Mr. Monster Man. Yup! Trust me, I've seen how these things play out. One minute, you're smooching on a hottie, and next, she's all… juicy… and not the good kind."

Quintin snorts across the fire, "... juicy."

You send the sleepy boy an inquisitive look over licks of welcoming flames, only to watch his eyes fall down to the ground between his shoes. It's still unclear what Quintin saw, but if he's protective, then that's a fault of his own toxic desire, not yours. The sounds you made and the faces you pulled wouldn't suggest an unpleasant experience, but you were, in a sense, ravaged against your will. 

"I think I'll wait for you at the cabin, Yui. If that's alright?" An award-winning smile gets a nod out of her, but once you stand, it's just a deluge of cum and slime and your own arousal. If you end up shuffling through the mist to the campgrounds, well… a little humiliation was worth this experiment. 

Hopefully, there will be more time to test the effects of this blighted mess… both with Talbot Grimes and times like now, when it's just you and the essence both your bodies create.

Only time will tell how long this can keep your interest, but it certainly beats jerking off by the fire until the Entity summons you.  _ This, _ you think with a smile,  _ is going to be an exciting use of eternity. _

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you so much for reading. All typos are my own. If you have time, please let me know what you think. <3
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